(F&F2) Lover's Seat
by Harper64
Summary: Sequel to 'Will You Dance with Me' and set in March 1941, just after 'Enemy Fire'. Foyle and Frances investigate a case that takes them to rural Hertfordshire when a girl's body is discovered in strange circumstances.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Her husband, Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle, had been quiet all week, but Frances had put this down to the worries of the case that he'd been working on. He never talked much about his work, although sometimes he would discuss just a small detail, to get a different perspective on his own ideas. This last case, she knew, had been a difficult one, taking him away for a couple of days and having some involvement, although she didn't know how much, with the Special Organisations Executive.

She also knew, although Christopher was not aware of this, that there had been an attempt on his life, his car being tampered with. Luckily no-one was hurt, other than Sam, his driver, cutting her forehead. It was seeing her with this cut that had led to Frances finding out about the crash. The fact that he had not told her himself concerned her but she put it down to the fact that he did not want to worry her. Little did he know that she worried about him all the time. After waiting so long to find him she did not want anything happening to him.

.

.

It was Thursday evening when Foyle brought up the subject that had been worrying him for several days.

"Um, tomorrow, the twenty-first, I, um, I usually go…" his words tailed off.

Frances looked at him over the dinner table, saw that he looked tired; sad even. Something in her memory clicked – _'February the twenty-first, Rosalind's death - how could I have forgotten?'_

"Of course you must go," she said smiling to show him that she was not offended, "will you go on your own?"

A relieved look settled on Christopher's face.

'_What have I done to deserve this woman who can read me like a book; who is prepared to let me still love another? '_

"I usually do, unless Andrew is able to join me. But," he paused, wondering if this was the right thing to do. Deciding that it was, he continued, "you could join me. If you feel that you'd like to, of course. Don't have to."

"I would be privileged to come with you," she told him seriously.

.

.

The next day Sam drove them both to the church, considerately waiting on a bench out of sight. Christopher led the way to the simple headstone – Rosalind Foyle 1902 -1932 R.I.P.

"'I'll leave you alone for a while," said Frances, squeezing his hand.

She wandered away, walking slowly through the frosty grass, reading the headstones. As always she was struck by the number of graves of children. She knew, of course, that child mortality was a fact of life, but seeing the physical evidence was very different to reading statistics. She felt much as she did when she had to peruse burial registers in the course of her research – melancholy, sorrowful about people she'd never known, some of them dying in dreadful circumstances. One particular headstone caught her eye – William and Benjamin Pearson, 16th September 1933 – 9th December 1933_. _

_'__Twins,'_ she thought_, 'not even two months old. How do you cope with something like that? To have held them, suckled them, sung to them…'_

Holding back the tears she returned to her husband. He was standing very still, the expression on his face heartbreakingly desolate; this, combined with the thought of the twin boys and the memory of her own lost child, broke down the barriers she had built against her grief and the tears began to flow. Christopher looked up and saw her, held out his arms and drew her against him, a warm haven in the cold churchyard. As they stood holding each other, she felt him begin to shake and realised that he, too, was sobbing and clinging to her like a child.

It was many minutes later when he released her and fished in his pocket for his handkerchief. Blowing his nose, he did the last thing Frances expected – he smiled.

"You know, that's the first time I've ever cried at her graveside, even during the funeral," he murmured, " I was too, um, stunned by it all then, and since, well, it's just not seemed real, somehow. And I had Andrew to think about; had to be strong to comfort him." He smiled sadly at her, "Never had anyone to comfort me before." His words made Frances dissolve into tears again so that it was she who had the red eyes and blotchy face as they walked back to the car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**.**

The following week it seemed that spring was trying to make an early start. The sun shone, albeit without much heat, and everyone's spirits seemed to rise. After an early lunch on Saturday, Frances felt the need to get out and stretch her legs without wading through the slush that had now, thankfully, melted.

"Come on," she encouraged Christopher, "It's such a lovely day. Where can we go for a good, long, bracing walk?"

"You sure that's what you want?" he asked, and when she nodded, said, "You'll need your wellies, then."

Wrapped up against the cold and wellington boots dutifully on, Frances followed him up the hill from the house. They crossed the main road that led eventually to Rye, and turned off to the right. Very soon they had left the houses behind and were in fields interspersed with wooded areas. They followed a path into one of the woods; the terrain became steeper and small streams often crossed the path. It was dark and dank but Frances realised that in summer this place would be quite magical.

"Quite right," agreed Christopher when she told him, "This is Fairlight Glen, named because of all the ferns that grow here, and it _is_ beautiful, in better weather of course. We'll have to come back in summer."

They clambered up steps hewn in the path and emerged out of the glen and into a more open space. They were really high up now, with superb views over the sea. Against the bare sandy cliff face stood a wooden seat onto which Frances gratefully collapsed.

"Watch where you're sitting," said Christopher, coming to sit beside her, "this is Lover's Seat." He put an arm around her and moved closer. "Legend has it that Miss Bessie Boys came here to signal to her lover, Lieutenant Lamb, on his ship and they carried on their torrid affair here."

As he was speaking, Christopher's hand was sliding into her coat and cupping her breast, his thumb rubbing her nipple... His breath was warm against her ear, his tongue teasing her earlobe. Frances felt her breathing begin to quicken, the now familiar tug of desire in her abdomen_._

_ '__Oh, how does he make me feel like this every time?'_ she thought, _'__He is irresistible!'_

"Christopher!" she exclaimed teasingly, "not here!"

"Oh, alright then," he said unexpectedly, "This isn't the original seat anyway. Look."

He stood and walked a few paces to where a large, long flat stone was leaning against the cliff-face. She followed.

"This was the original seat," he told her, "I remember being told that it used to stick out over the edge of the cliff edge and people would climb out and sit on it. Very dangerous!"

He was very close to her again; opening his overcoat he wrapped it around her.

"And talking of things sticking out…" he whispered, pulling her close, his hands on her rear.

She could feel his erection, hard against her belly as he held her; put her arms around his waist as he kissed her deeply. He rubbed against her, humming with pleasure.

She felt her own body responding. They had seen no-one on their walk this cold afternoon, she was tempted to throw caution to the wind, hitch up her skirt and let him… He stepped forward, lips still on hers, pushing her gently against the cliff and the terror hit her.

"No, no, stop!" she shouted and pushed him away. Christopher knew this panicked expression now, although he'd seen it less and less as the months went by. He moved back immediately, giving her the freedom she needed. At least there was no trembling this time, no tears; just a sad resignation that her past experiences still tormented her, often when she least expected it.

"Oh, my love, I am so, so sorry," she said. She was holding her arms crossed over her chest.

"What was it this time?" he asked carefully. He thought he had learned, over the six months of their marriage, to avoid the things that provoked this reaction; found ways around them to make her aware that he would never knowingly hurt her in any way.

"The wall, hard against my back….his weight holding me there, not being able to move….the smell of stale beer and smoke…" She shuddered.

Christopher was well aware of the way her first husband had treated her, but this was the first time he'd heard this particular scenario.

_'__How could he?'_ he thought, _'__how could he treat such a caring, loving woman in such a callous way?'_

"Then let me…" Christopher said gently as _he_ leaned up the cliff and opened his coat wide, inviting her into his warm embrace. There was no hesitation; she was in his arms, and she knew that she was safe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

On the way home he told her the tale of Bessie Boys and Lieutenant Lamb.

"It ended well. They married, in the church at the bottom of our street actually, had a daughter and lived happily ever after. At least until the promoted Captain Lamb was killed in a yachting accident thirty-odd years later."

He stood still and looked at her, her face glowing from the increasing cold, said softly "I would have liked a daughter."

It was so unlike him to share such a personal confidence with her that she didn't know what to say. Instead she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

"I'm sorry I spoiled the moment up there," she said, unbuttoning his coat and putting her gloved hands around him, "could we have another?"

"Definitely," he answered, his hands on her rear, "but let's get home first. It's brass monkeys out here!"

.

.

The sun was low in the sky and there was frost beginning to form on the hedges as they made their way home. Christopher set a fast pace, making Frances nearly run to keep up. When she complained he reminded her that he was awaiting his 'moment'. By the time they reached the top of Steep Lane they were both winded. They stood on the front steps, their breath making clouds in the cold air, as Christopher unlocked the door.

They shed their coats and boots and, while Frances used the bathroom, Christopher removed the fireguard and poked up the banked fire. He put one of the logs from the apple tree on, knowing that Frances loved the smell of it burning.

"Mm, apple wood," she said appreciatively, coming in from the hallway, carrying their dressing gowns. Even though it was not yet dark, she closed the curtains so that only the firelight flickered in the room. "Did you bolt the door?"

"I did," answered Christopher. They both smiled as they remembered the evening that Andrew had arrived home without warning, causing a hasty rearrangement of clothing on their part.

They undressed each other and made love slowly and languorously on the hearthrug. Frances loved these moments; yes, need and urgency were exciting and had their place, but this lazy enjoyment of each other's bodies was, for her, everything that marriage should be.

Eventually Christopher raised himself up on one elbow, "That was a _very_ good moment, Mrs Foyle. Thank you."

She laughed, "No. Thank you, Mr Foyle. I'm sorry about earlier."

"No need to be sorry," he said, "We all have our demons."

"You don't," said Fran. She had never met anyone so self-controlled and even tempered.

"Well, you'd be surprised. I'm just very good at keeping them locked away." His tone was light but his eyes told a different story.

Frances shivered. "This isn't the time for this conversation," she said, "and anyway, I'm starving."

.

.

They sat in front of the fire wrapped in dressing gowns, toasting slices of bread on brass toasting-forks. Frances remembered what Christopher had said on the way home, wondered about speaking to him about it.

"You said you would have liked a daughter," she began tentatively.

The moment was right. The lethargic post-coital mood, the flickering firelight, the warm closeness of her body to his; all these combined to make him more inclined than usual to open one of those demon cages.

"I would have, yes, but it wasn't to be. You see, Rosalind and I, we had Andrew very early on in our marriage. Pregnancy suited her," he closed his eyes, seeing again his young wife's blossoming body and her contented smile, "We always said we'd have hordes of little ones running through the house." He smiled at the thought of his imaginary children; bathing scraped knees, little hands holding his, little arms around his neck….

"She had some, um, problems when Andrew was born. It seemed to go on forever, I could hear her screams …" His eyes were bright with unshed tears. "And when he did arrive, she was exhausted and miserable. He was a big baby and cried to be fed all the time, but she…she didn't have the energy or enough milk for him."

Fran took the toasting fork from his hand, the bread beginning to burn. He didn't seem to notice.

"After a few days the midwife said he'd have to have a bottle. Bless her, she organised it all, but Roz seemed to have lost interest in Andrew, so I had to take over as much as I could. I hired a private nurse to look after them both while I was at work…I was just a constable then…. couldn't really afford it, but…."

"Anyway, he stared to thrive and by the time he was on solid food Roz was nearly back to herself again. I hadn't touched her for months…. and when we did eventually … she'd been torn, you see, down there, it had healed but it made things, um, painful."

Fran couldn't help herself, she put her arms around his neck but he didn't respond, lost, as he was, in the past.

"She made it clear that she didn't want any more babies. How could I blame her for that? So when we did make love, which wasn't very often, it was always very, um, careful. She hated me using a sheath, said it hurt even more so we had to rely on more, um, natural methods. But she was always so worried about …."

He came back to the present, turned to face her, "I just felt so guilty that I had done that to her. I loved her so much and I damaged her. We loved each other and we were very happy together, but we could have had so much more."

Frances knew, better than most, that the fact that he had shared this painful part of his life meant that he could begin to come to terms with it. She kissed his cheek and held him tight but said nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

They sat quietly, that evening, the wireless on low, both with a book. Christopher was reading his, but Frances' thoughts were roaming elsewhere; to her husband. Before they married she had never seen him at work or with colleagues. Having now done so, she was amazed at the difference between his private and public faces. At work he presented a self-assured, serious and reserved side, rarely mentioning his private life, if at all. Yet at home he could be funny, downright mischievous even, romantic, not to mention somewhat racy.

And his son, Andrew - she was happy that she had developed a close relationship with him. This had started before the wedding, and continued at Christmas after an embarrassing encounter. She and Christopher had been enjoying a kiss under the mistletoe in the hallway, well, more than one kiss, if truth be told, and he was pleasantly aroused. Andrew had burst through the door, escaping the heavy rain; had been mortified to see the obvious visible evidence of this. He was clearly embarrassed to speak to his father that evening, and Fran had gone to talk to him when he'd taken himself off into his room.

"I suppose I knew that you and Dad were, you know, doing it," he'd said, "but not quite so, um, blatantly."

She'd laughed at that. "What, only at night and in bed? Don't be such a prude, Andrew. And for goodness' sake, don't be embarrassed to speak to your Dad," she'd said, leaving the room, "you never know, you might learn something."

Christopher had not told her what had been said between them but Andrew's embarrassment had disappeared and he'd even begun to tease them about their obvious physical relationship.

One of the most satisfying things was that, perhaps less inhibited by his physical contact with her, Christopher was becoming more openly affectionate with Andrew. Where there once would have been a handshake or touch on the shoulder there were now real hugs. Frances wondered at this former reticence between them. Was it a result of Andrew growing up without a woman in the house to encourage physical contact? Even though she'd lost her mother at a very young age, and been brought up in a house full of boys, there had always been cuddles and hugs between them all. Andrew had been fourteen when his mother died – a difficult age for a father/son relationship at the best of times. Had their grief resulted in a void between them? They obviously loved each other deeply, but neither would have dreamed of telling the other.

Andrew had also continued the relationship with Sam that had started with their collaboration over the wedding; although they did not manage to see much of each other, Fran knew they had been writing to each other. It was a friendship that Frances was happy to encourage; she liked Sam very much and knew that Christopher did also.

Late on the anniversary of Rosalind's death, Andrew had come home, exhausted, on a weekend pass. When he had realised that he had forgotten the relevance of the date, he had been distraught at the thought of letting his father down. The following day he had spoken to her about it, pleading for her to intervene on his behalf with his father. Having already heard Christopher's thoughts she was able to reassure him.

"Your Dad understands," she'd told him, "he's not disappointed in you, not at all."

"Oh, he says that but I don't believe him," Andrew had said, obviously disappointed in himself. "He would never forget. I bet he went, didn't he? Even though he's got you now."

She tried to explain, "Look, Andrew, the relationship between you and your Mum would have changed by now, even if she'd lived. You would have grown apart as you've become independent. But she and your Dad… well, their relationship would never have changed. They'd always have had that closeness." She gave him an encouraging smile, "So yes, he did go, and I went with him. Because he _has_ got me now, and he'll always have her as well."

Andrew had not been convinced, however, but it was not until a couple of days later when they discovered just how much strain he'd been under, that she understood his attitude. Once settled in his new posting, without the pressure of flying operations, he had written to her, thanking her for her understanding.

And now this latest revelation from her beloved Christopher! She could feel tears forming just thinking about it; him loving so much and not being able to demonstrate it physically, denying himself the pleasures of intimacy to protect his wife. And he'd been so much younger then, so much more in need of a physical relationship. What a wonderful, caring, considerate man he was. How happy he had made her…

She did cry then, for Rosalind and Christopher's loss and her own incredible gain. Christopher put down his book and came over to her, concerned.

"I'm alright, really," she told him, "It's just that I love you so much."

.

.

February turned to March and spring tried again in earnest. Frances spent a lot of time on the top floor of the house where she had set up her sewing room. Being married to Christopher was wonderful when he was there, but she soon found that her days were empty. Once she had arranged the house to their mutual liking, the household duties did not require much time and, for someone who had always worked, the hours dragged. She'd joined the local knitting circle, making socks and such for the troops and offered her services at the Town Hall where she was sometimes called in when staff were absent; but the previous year's bombing raids had meant the many people had moved out of the town and those left seemed lethargic.

She had put cards in the Post Office and a few shops offering both a genealogical research service and a dress-making and alteration service. There was no take-up on the research, but the dressmaking brought in quite a bit of work and, as in London, often added to their larder. What it also did was introduce her to people she would otherwise never have met so that she now had quite a large circle of acquaintances. When out and about she often stopped for a chat with someone, although, as yet, there was no-one she would consider to be a true friend.

Despite all this, she really missed her old job, even the huge indexes at Somerset House that made her arms ache. She missed the quiet dusty church vestries where she'd often worked alone, sometimes to the background of organ music or choirs practising; she missed the excitement of opening an old vellum document and finding a familiar name in the cramped almost illegible writing. She missed the frisson of anticipation when she opened a certificate that would show whether her instincts had been correct. What she really missed, she realised, was the challenge of solving the puzzles her research work had presented her with; stretching her brain and her imagination. What could she do to solve this problem?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

One evening in the middle of March, Christopher came home looking drained. Frances made him a cup of tea and waited for him to tell her what had happened.

"Gods, what a day," he said at last, "I had to tell a couple that their fourteen year old daughter had been murdered."

Fran held his hand over the kitchen table.

"She was found up at Lover's Seat, you remember it? Strangled. Strange though, her underwear was missing, her blouse ripped but the Medical Officer says that she wasn't interfered with; she was still a virgin."

"Perhaps someone disturbed her attacker," suggested Frances, "lots of people must go up there this time of year."

"Mm, no signs of a struggle though. It's an odd one, this. And nothing on her, no bag, gas mask, anything."

"How did you identify her then?" asked Frances.

"It just so happened that one of the constables recognised her as a neighbour's girl. Here's the bizarre thing though, she shouldn't have been here at all. She was evacuated last year, to a place in Hertfordshire."

He was quiet all evening and Frances knew that that the case was worrying him more than was usual.

.

.

Foyle was, indeed thinking about the girl, Dorothy Edwards.

_'__How the hell did she get back here? And why? Where are her things? Was she killed at Lover's Seat? No signs of a struggle…was there a boyfriend? Or was she killed elsewhere? Difficult place to carry a body to. Was she reported missing by her host family? If so, why haven't we been informed? _

He imagined various scenarios but one question always remained. _Why was she killed? _

_._

_._

The next morning Foyle set off to work with Sam, only to return alone a couple of hours later.

"Come for a few things," he said, "I'm going up to Hertfordshire. May be a few days."

"Just you? Is Sam driving you?" asked Frances.

"No, not enough petrol for that and I can't spare anyone to go along. I'll go on my own by train." He looked at Fran, her hair supposedly pinned up but most of it down, her body wrapped in the bright green cardigan that she'd worn in the hotel where they'd met.

_'__Oh Fran, I'll miss you so much!' _

The words were out of his mouth before he realised it, "Why don't you come with me?"

"Would that be allowed?" she frowned.

"I'm the Chief Superintendent, love. I say what's allowed. Please, come with me."

Her surprised smile was his reward. He knew how isolated and bored she often was, even though she never complained. She was always eager to hear about his work but professionally he felt it was not appropriate; some aspects he would not want to expose her to anyway. He had cultivated the detachment that was needed for dealing with such work; Fran was far more emotional about everything.

They packed enough for a few days, secured the house and set off.

.

.

On the train, Foyle told her what had already been discovered about the case, omitting some of the unpleasant details and concentrating on the puzzle it presented.

"She was wearing a locket, just a small one," he said, "we didn't realise it could be opened until Sam showed us the trick of it. Inside we found a tiny scrap of paper with 'Ellen Mary' written on it and '2 4 25'.

"A code of some kind?" Frances suggested, "a date perhaps – second of April 1925?"

"Could be," said Foyle. "Milner's going to ask the parents if the name means anything to them."

The carriage filled up at the next station, preventing more discussion of the case. Instead Frances told him stories of some of her fellow knitters in her usual entertaining way, making him smile.

_'__I'm so glad I asked her to come. Perhaps we can steal a day for ourselves, a late honeymoon of sorts,' _he thought.

_._

_._

They reached Victoria Station in London just after lunchtime, and found a café where they had tea and a Spam sandwich. They then took the Tube across the blitzed city to Kings Cross Station and boarded a train to Hitchin. A taxi took them to Ickleford, the nearest village to their ultimate destination. Foyle asked the taxi driver to suggest a good place to stay, and they were put down outside 'The Prince of Wales' pub, where the landlord was happy to find them a room.

"It's on the third floor, I'm afraid," he said as he showed them the way, "but it's the only room up here, so the top bathroom's all yours."

Frances disappeared into the bathroom immediately and came out looking pale.

"You alright?" asked Christopher, unpacking the bags "you look, um, a bit peaky."

"I'll be fine," she answered, "I think it's all the travelling. Either that or the Spam was off."

The pub managed a very reasonable menu under the circumstances and they enjoyed a tasty meal together. Christopher was even more impressed that they stocked his favourite malt. The lounge bar was quiet and comfortable and they sat in front of the fire talking until late. The bed was comfortable too, and, to Christopher's relief, the springs were not too creaky at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The next morning Foyle checked in with the local police constable and made him aware of his own enquiries. The constable was an elderly man, on the point of retirement and admitted that he'd never had to investigate a murder. He was more than happy to let the Hastings detective do the job while he sat in the warm. Foyle was relieved that his enquiries would not be hampered by old chap.

Returning to the pub, Foyle asked the whereabouts of Earl's Farm, where the murdered girl, Dorothy, had been billeted. He was told that it was a good three miles away. Upon his enquiring about a taxi the landlord laughed.

"No taxi in the village, squire. It's Shanks' Pony, I'm afraid."

"Fancy a walk, love?" Foyle asked Frances. "It's 'a good three miles' though."

"More like four then, "smiled Frances looking out of the window, "Yes, why not. It looks like it'll stay dry. Better wear your wellies though."

.

.

Two miles later, Foyle was very glad he'd taken her advice, as the road became narrower with grass growing down the middle. Another mile and it was just a muddy track, rutted with tractor tyre tracks. Finally they saw the large farmhouse, a line of washing flapping in the cold wind behind it. The yard in front was littered with equipment.

"Coming in with me?" asked Foyle.

"Um, no, I'll wait here for you," Frances replied, perching on an upturned bucket abandoned near a gate to an empty field.

"If you're sure, then. I won't be too long." Foyle set off toward the house.

.

.

Mrs Earl was ironing when Foyle knocked on the door and introduced himself, and went back to it as they spoke.

"I'm here about, um, Dorothy Edwards," he started.

"Oh, you've found her then," Mrs Earl appeared disinterested, "What's she done this time?"

"Well, we don't know exactly what she's done yet," hedged Foyle, "but you know she's gone missing, then? Why haven't you reported it?"

"She's always going missing that one," Mrs Earl banged the iron on the table, "always prying and poking into others' business and hiding herself away. More trouble than she's worth! Always comes back though."

Foyle recalled the conversation he'd had with the young constable who had recognised the body. Was this the same Dorothy Edwards? She came from a good family, well liked in the street, the girl no trouble at all, clever and quite studious. His own visit to the house had reinforced that opinion.

"Right. Well, Mrs Earl, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Dorothy has been found, she's dead," Foyle informed her.

"Dead! What happened to her then?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, Mrs Earl. Now, when did you last see her?"

Foyle asked a few more questions and, having got the information he required, asked to see Dorothy's room. He was led up to a large attic room with three beds ranged along the wall. Apart from a couple of cupboards, presumably for clothing, and three small bedside tables, the room was bare.

"And which bed was Dorothy's?" he asked.

Mrs Earl indicated the furthest bed and Foyle saw there was only a water glass on the bedside table. He checked the bed, under the pillow. Nothing.

"Didn't Dorothy have any books, Mrs Earl?" he asked, "I was told she was a studious child."

"She brought a couple with her. Don't know what happened to them," Mrs Earl's voice was non-committal.

"And how many evacuees did you take in?" he asked, his experienced eye taking in every detail of the room.

"Five," stated Mrs Earl proudly, "No-one can say I'm not doing my bit."

"And where are the others now?

"Well, the two lads and the youngest girl are at school, of course," she answered defensively, "and the eldest girl, she's gone to see a friend."

"Right, thank you Mrs Earl. That's all for now. I may want to speak to the other children, but I doubt it will be necessary." He watched as her posture relaxed slightly.

As she showed him out of the house he turned, "I nearly forgot. Does the name Ellen mean anything to you?"

She was visibly startled but recovered enough to say, "Ellen Hooper. That's the eldest girl I have here, but, as I said, she's gone to visit a friend. I don't know when she'll be back."

"That's fine, Mrs Earl. Thank you for your time," said Foyle and headed off up the track his mind already working ten to the dozen.

.

.

Frances watched her husband disappear into the farmhouse.

_'__How smart he looks,' _she thought, _'__especially in this setting. He always takes such pride in his appearance.'_

Her mind went back to watching him dress, that morning. He'd put on her favourite red tie and the cufflinks she'd bought him at Christmas. He'd taken such care, whilst she had flung on a blouse and trousers, with a somewhat worn jumper over the top. They were in the country after all.

She spent a few more minutes day-dreaming and then got up to stamp her feet and swing her arms in the chilly air. Walking up and down the track to keep warm she felt the result of two cups of tea and a walk in the cold; she really needed to pee. Looking up and down the track the only place with any privacy seemed to be the field in whose gateway she'd been sitting. She was surprised to see that the gate was padlocked, but she clambered over the gate and went in, checking that there was no-one around. The field was deserted, but even so, she made her way to the corner where a small wooden structure was standing, straw scattered around it. Concealing herself behind it, she relieved herself. As she was doing so she became aware of a smell of petrol coming from the shed. Peering between the slats she was just able to make out what looked like large cans.

_'__How strange,_' she thought, making her way back to the track_, 'why would anyone keep petrol out in a field like that? And why has a perfectly decent field not been planted with…whatever they grow out here?'_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

They walked back to the pub together, Foyle not saying much and Frances keeping quiet, knowing that he was working. That afternoon Foyle telephoned Hastings Police Station and spoke to Sergeant Milner. After lunch he took Frances with him to see the village Billeting Officer. Unfortunately she was not at home, but Foyle left a message with her elderly mother explaining that they would try again the next day. He then left Frances in their room as he went to speak to the local bobby again.

It wasn't until quite late that evening that Frances got round to telling him about the petrol smell. He quizzed her about the structure and its exact position. He was also interested as to why the gate to an empty field should be secured.

"Do you think it's important?" asked Frances, eager to contribute to the case.

"Not sure," he answered, "it may be nothing at all, but clever of you to find it."

.

.

"Would you do me a favour, please, love," asked Foyle the next day as they finished breakfast, "Would you mind going and seeing the Billeting Officer for me while I go back to Earl's Farm?"

"Tell me what you want me to ask, then," she replied, pleased to be trusted with the task.

Armed with a list of questions, Frances set off through the village. The Billeting Officer proved to be a tall, thin WVS woman with grey hair scraped back into a bun and a flustered manner. She was not at all sure whether she should give Frances any information at all until the elderly woman they had seen the previous day vouched for her.

Her questions asked and answers gathered, it was a very excited Frances who met Foyle on his return.

"I didn't realise that there are private evacuees as well as the ones who leave 'en masse'," she told her husband. "Mrs Earl is being paid for two girls who came with a whole coachload from Hastings. She also is being paid for two boys and a girl whose evacuation was arranged privately. But, Christopher, I don't think those boys are real."

"Not real? What do you mean? Slow down and explain," he smiled at her enthusiasm.

"Well the boys are William and Benjamin Pearson, both aged eight and from Hastings. Now, when we went to Rosalind's grave, you remember, I left you on your own and went for a look around for a bit? I saw a headstone for two boys with exactly the same names! I remembered it because I was imagining their mother calling them Bill and Ben."

"And the surname, you think that was the same?" Foyle's interest was real now, his mind working overtime.

"Pearson, yes." She said, "Over the years I've developed tricks for remembering names, yes definitely Pearson."

"And how old were these boys?"

"They were born and died in 1933. They weren't even two months old," Frances closed her eyes at the memory. "I've heard of this before, you know. People find the grave of someone who died but would be about the same age as them if they'd lived. They take their details and apply for the birth certificate. With that they can apply for ration books, bank accounts and so on. It doesn't always work, of course, the person who died may not have been born in the same place, but if you know about searching the registers you can pull it off." She spoke confidently – this was her territory.

"Yes I've heard of it too. But if the authorities are suspicious, can't they just check that that person hasn't died?" Foyle asked.

"Well it's possible but it could take months, depending on their age. There's no link, you see, between the birth, marriage and death registers. A vicar will sometimes write a death note alongside a baptism if the child died at a very young age, but even that's unusual."

"Right," said Foyle, "Mrs Earl told me the boys were at school. Shall we go back to class?"

A visit to the school and a chat with the Head Mistress proved Frances' suspicions to be correct. There was no-one named William or Benjamin Pearson on their rolls. There were not even any twin boys.

"Well we know that Mrs Earl was claiming for evacuees she didn't have," said Frances as they walked back to the pub, "but it's no help with finding out who killed Dorothy."

"Mm, I wonder if they're also on the fiddle with the petrol," mused Foyle, "in my experience if petty crooks find they can get away with one thing they'll try another."

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In the middle of the night Christopher sat up and shook Fran awake.

"What is it? Is there an air raid?" she asked, still half-asleep.

"No, no," he answered, "Fran love, think for a minute. How many girls did you say had come from Hastings?"

Fran struggled to sit up, "You woke me up to ask me that!" But she knew he wouldn't rest until he had the answer. "Two. She told me that two girls had come with a coachload of others and gone to Earl's Farm. And one girl was a private arrangement."

"Thank you, love. You can go back to sleep now," he said, burrowing down under the blankets.

"Oh no you don't!" said Fran reaching under the covers to find the warmest part of his body, "You don't get away with waking me up in the middle of the night without paying the price."

It was a price he was more than happy to pay.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

They went together to see to the Billeting Officer again, but Foyle asked to speak to her alone. Fran, waiting in the small front garden, was invited in by the elderly mother for a cup of tea. It was an interesting chat they had over that cup of tea.

"Did you find out anything more at the farm yesterday?" asked Frances as they walked back to the pub for lunch.

"I met the husband and son," replied Foyle, "I didn't find out much more, but I got more of a feeling about them, if you know what I mean. The son's a strapping lad, about seventeen, and looks as if he knows how to handle himself in a fight. "

"Did they say how long they've lived there?" Frances had a gleam in her eye, "Would it surprise you to know they've only been there just less than a year? They came from London originally, took over the farm when Mr Earl's brother died. They're not very popular in the village either."

"Where on earth did you get all this from?" Foyle asked. She told him about her chat over tea.

"Well, well, thank you, my love" he said approvingly, "I'll be promoting you to sergeant next."

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Back in Hastings, Sergeant Milner, had been busy. He'd visited Dorothy's parents and asked them if the name and numbers in the locket meant anything to them. Then he'd been called out to Rock-A-Nore beach where a bag had been found tucked under a pile of rocks – it looked to be Dorothy's; although any identification had been removed the clothing looked right for her age and size. Speaking to several fishermen who worked on the beach, he'd got a good description of the young man who'd hidden it there. Returning to Dorothy's family he'd established that the bag was indeed hers, but the young man wasn't known to them.

The following day he'd been busy speaking to coal merchants and their delivery drivers, and had a theory about how Dorothy had managed at least some of her journey.

Finally, following a telephone call from Foyle, he'd trawled through records of evacuees from the beginning of the war.

Late that afternoon he and Foyle spoke at some length, after which Foyle went again to speak to the local police officer. When he returned Fran could tell by his manner that her husband was confident that the case would be solved.

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The day had been clear and sunny, and now that the sun had gone down, the clear night sky meant a steep drop in temperature. The pub was busy with the usual Friday-nighters so Christopher and Frances ate in their room. He returned the tray to the kitchen and came back upstairs to find Fran snuggled in bed in her fleecy pyjamas, even though it was early to turn in.

"I'm cold," was her explanation when he expressed surprise, "and my back aches. Could you be a dear and rub it for me? " She rolled onto her front. Christopher changed into his pyjamas and knelt across her thighs.

"Where does it hurt?" he asked. Fran indicated the small of her back and, parting the pyjama top and trousers, he began to rub firmly.

"Up a bit, ooh, just there," she said, making groaning noises as his kneading fingers loosened the tight muscles. She hitched up her pyjama top and pointed to a spot just below her shoulders, "Just there, mm, lovely, harder, please."

Christopher smiled. "Oh definitely harder," he told her, pressing the evidence against her delicious rear, as his fingers continued their work.

"Mmm," she purred, "feels like someone else is enjoying this as well."

She made to turn over, but he stopped her. "Stay there, love," he said softly, "I can wait."

He continued the massage of her back, his fingers reaching under her jacket the spot between her shoulder blades that always ached after sitting at her desk. They moved down and out, brushing the edges of her breast but not quite touching them. Down to the small of her back and further; he pulled her fleecy trousers down under her buttocks and kneaded from the small of her back and down. She was trembling under his touch, knew she was wet with wanting; she tried to turn again, but still he prevented her.

"I told you, love," he whispered in her ear, his body now stretched the length of hers, "stay there."

"But I want to see you, kiss you," she protested, turning her head.

"Plenty of time," he murmured as he moved back down, his firm manhood no longer hard on her back, but closer now to its ultimate destination.

"Right," thought Fran, "trying to tease me, are you?" as with one movement she pulled up her knees and raised her rear up to meet him.

She heard him gasp with pleasure; groan as he entered her so blatantly displayed warmth. Fran was engrossed by the new sensations this position presented her with; pressure in places she'd never felt it before. She pushed back taking him further into her, his hands on her thighs now, supporting her hips, pulling her onto him even more with each thrust. She knew his sounds now; he was making the short gasping sounds that told her he was holding back, waiting for her. One hand reached around her body and found its target; one supple finger drew infinitesimal circles on it as she clenched her muscles to hold it there. She reached her climax almost immediately, and very loudly; moments later, his came, so deep inside that it produced the same effect on her again. Their cries of release merged into one. It was a long time before he withdrew, lay next to her and offered the kisses she had requested.

"Oh my giddy aunt," she breathed, using an expression she knew made him smile, "that was …unexpected."

_ '__How wonderful it is that you can enjoy it so much,'_ he thought_, 'and how astonishing it is that, just when I thought I was past all this, you make _me_feel so wanted, so desired .'_

"Lucky it's so busy downstairs," he teased her, "you were so noisy you'd have frightened the horses."

He got the slap he expected for that remark, each of them masking the intensity of their feelings in playful banter.

It was far too early for sleep so they lay together chatting of inconsequential matters, until Fran turned to him, her expression serious.

"I've really enjoyed helping you with this case," she told him, "I've missed using my brain. Queuing for a lamb shank doesn't really stretch my abilities, you know. I think, when we get back, I'm going to see if I can find a solicitor that specialises in wills and probate. See if I can find something like my old job."

"Think that's very sensible," answered Christopher, "but if you can't?"

"You could always promote Milner and make me your sergeant," she teased.

Christopher smiled, "Better see if we've cracked this one first, don't you think?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The following morning Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle and a young detective from Hitchin were driven to Earl's Farm by members of the Hitchin constabulary. George Earl, aged seventeen, was arrested for the murder of Dorothy Edwards, Horace and Marjorie Earl, aged forty-five and forty-four, respectively were arrested for fraud; an investigation into illegal selling of petrol was instigated. Foyle agreed that the Hitchin Force should handle the case and briefed them on everything that he knew or suspected. Official documents had already been sent from Hastings along with a very comprehensive report from Sergeant Milner.

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"I'm amazed," said Frances, when Christopher told her that he was not going to be involved with the case, "You've handed it over to them? Surely you want to see this through yourself? I know how you like to tie up all the loose ends."

"No, my love," he said, tucking more escaping hair behind her ears, "I'll be called as a witness when it comes to court, but that won't be for a while. For now all I want is to be with you. After all, we never had a honeymoon. I'm thinking of taking a few days off, where would you like to go?"

"Ooh, would you very much mind if we went to see Joe and Mags?" she asked him.

"Coventry, isn't it? It'll still be a mess up there after last November, you realise."

"I know. They were very lucky. But when she wrote at Christmas Mags told me she was expecting again, do you remember? I just thought…." Frances' voice trailed away.

After a few telephone calls Christopher told her the long route they'd have to take, involving several changes of train.

"I didn't realise it would be such a long, involved journey. Let me think about it," she told him, "the last train journey left me feeling a bit queasy."

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That evening, over an after-dinner drink, Christopher revealed the details of Dorothy Edwards' murder.

"You already know that the Earls were claiming billeting allowance for non-existent children. In fact there were only the two girls; Dorothy and one a bit younger, Janet …. somebody, who were genuine. The eldest girl, who Mrs Earl said was Ellen Hooper was actually a relative who was staying there. Mrs Earl was claiming for her as Ellen Mary Edwards who was also a child who died young."

"But wasn't that a bit risky, using the same surname as Dorothy?" asked Fran.

"Well, the fictitious Ellen was being claimed for before Dorothy arrived. It appears that Dorothy found some papers with this name on and, being the clever girl she was, recognised it as the name of her older sister who had died before Dorothy, was born, but whom her family had told her about. What she didn't know was her sister's date of birth.

"The numbers on the paper."

"Yes, so Dorothy decided to come back to Hastings and find out what was going on. We believe she may have had the idea that her sister didn't die but was given away or some such thing; we'll never know for sure."

"Hold on a minute, why were the Earls using the names of Hastings' children? There was always the chance that a name may have been recognised, like Ellen. And when did they see the headstones?" Fran was puzzled.

"Very good question, Sergeant Foyle," Christopher teased, "It turns out that the son, George, was evacuated from London, where _you _cleverly found out they'd lived. Guess where to?"

"Hastings!" Fran was enormously pleased to see the picture coming together.

"Correct. He'd been sent there when he was fourteen and his parents had been down to see him a couple of times. They'd heard of this scheme of using the names from headstones and while they were visiting they'd made note of a few likely candidates. They may have intended to use them in London for other purposes, but then they inherited the farm."

"So how did Dorothy get to Hastings? It's a long way for a child without much money." Fran recalled the journey, especially the change of stations in London.

"I'll get to that. When her bag was found on the beach it was covered in coal dust, so Milner was working on the theory that she'd hitched a lift, or just hidden on a coal lorry for at least part of the journey. He found a driver who'd given a lift to a young couple whose motorbike had broken down. He was also able to track down a garage that repaired a similar bike. Both gave matching descriptions of the young man, the same one who'd been seen hiding the bag, and the description of the girl…"

"…. matched Dorothy? So did she know him or was she picked up by the bike rider? Was he her killer? But why was she killed?" Fran's brain was whirling with ideas but she couldn't quite work it out.

"The young man's description matched George Earl, and I'd seen a motorbike on the farm. Luckily the garage owner had taken the registration number and…."

"…. It was his bike! But all the way to Hastings and back would take a lot…. The petrol!"

"Yep, they also had a petrol fiddle going, don't know the details yet, but that store you found was certainly suspicious – couldn't be seen from the road, disguised as a feed store, locked gate. George could have carried enough for the round trip. What I didn't know was whether he'd taken Dorothy from the farm or followed her and caught up with her. The coal lorry driver said they looked like good friends so I'm guessing it'll be that the family found out what she knew and her intention to go to Hastings; they'll have told George to take her, then shut her up before she blew the whistle on them."

"And Lover's Seat? Why there?"

"He'd come across the place when he was down there, thought that by making it look like she'd been killed during a, um, lover's quarrel he could hide the real reason. He's a big, strong lad, he could have carried her body up there; difficult but could be done."

Fran put her head on his shoulder and sighed, "So a fourteen -year-old girl was killed to protect a couple who were getting a few extra pounds from their illegal activities. That is awful, Christopher. How do you go on doing the job when you're faced with that kind of thing all the time?"

"I wonder that myself, love," he answered wearily, "every day. Now have you thought any more about going to see your brother?"

"I've had a better idea," smiled Fran, "I know a lovely place we can go – warm, comfortable, walks by the sea, place to ourselves so we won't be disturbed….."

"Sounds ideal. Where is it?"

"I think you know it - Steep Lane, Hastings."

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oooooOOOOOooooo

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Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story.

New story 'Buried Secrets' coming soon.


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